


all the broken glass sparkling

by elainebarrish



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Bodyguard AU, F/F, us politics au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-17 13:57:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11853006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elainebarrish/pseuds/elainebarrish
Summary: it's edmure that finds her, it's osha that finally makes her feel welcome, but in the end, you're the reason that she has to quit.it's a cat/brienne bodyguard au





	all the broken glass sparkling

**Author's Note:**

> OK SO according 2 my notebook ive been working on this since the 7th august 2016, and then wrote a coupla pages on the 7th feb 2017, and then i just added the end like just now when i typed it all up, so it's super and it's super rushed and it's not quite the 10k epic it shld have been. basically this pairing deserves a lot better they're practically fuckin canon my dudes. anyway i love politics which is basically how this was born sorry

You interview thousands of people in well-tailored suits that hide their guns, and you interview a fair amount that don’t even try to hide them, and you find bodyguards for each of your kids, people that you hope that they’ll be able to live with. They all complain, and Arya tells you that has Needle, Sansa points out that Lady follows her almost everywhere, Jon and Robb both say that they can look after themselves, and Ned’s old advisors tell you that you have to find one for yourself too. You decide that you want it to be a woman, and you’ve already had to specify that it can’t be anyone with any sort of known tie to the Lannisters, or the Freys, or the Targaryens. You keep interviewing women, some of whom are barely old enough to be considered older than girls, and eventually Edmure brings over someone that’s been working for him, someone that has enough of a connection to politics to automatically be assumed honourable but not so much that anybody needs to worry.

 

She’s tall, enough that she has to duck through doorways, and her suit is ill fitting but hides the gun that you know is strapped underneath her arm. Her eyes are blue and her hair short, but looks a tad like she doesn’t know what to do with it. Her voice is quiet, serious, and she doesn’t say much other than “yes ma’am,” as you show her around. You leave her to it, and later notice her stood in the garden, ostensibly checking the fence for structural faults (you’d told her everything was fine and she’d told you that she prefers to check for herself), but her face is turned upwards towards the sun, smiling, her eyes briefly closed. You decide the two of you will get along just fine.

 

She doesn’t talk much, not even to the other bodyguards, although Margaery gets a few smiles out of her occasionally when she visits, but Sansa tells you later that that’s just because Loras always thought she had a crush on Renly (which she reportedly didn’t) and Margaery complains about him purposefully. Mostly Brienne is just a constant, looming presence, but she does make you feel safer, and you haven’t felt anywhere close to that since Ned left, before Robert called him to DC and both of them ended up dead (you don’t believe it was Cersei, even though everybody tells you you should). Joffrey dies while running for his father’s old seat, a seat he wasn’t going to win mostly due to being a thoroughly unlikable person, and that convinces you of Cersei’s innocence. Margaery stays with you after that, convinced that it’s safer, and attempts to convince her brother out of his political machinations, even if he’s only involved because wherever Renly goes he goes with him.

 

Everything remains quiet after, mostly you just hear rumours about the Targaryen girl, about what she’s up to in the south, even as everybody says that she’ll be too young for the presidency for at least ten years (and regardless of the rumours that the presidency isn’t all that she wants). Jon joins the army, is gone for months, and Brienne has still talked to you very little. You assume that she’s just being professional.

 

Brienne tags along to dinner parties and benefits and is drawn into charity work with you, where she ends up helping even though she tries to tell you that’s it’s not professional, that she’s supposed to keep her distance. You find her at night at your kitchen table, frowning at her phone like she’s just received bad news, you bump into her on your way to the bathroom, you laugh when she almost knocks her head while half-asleep. She is conscientious and polite and her smile, when she lets you see it, is warm and wide and shy, like she’s not used to it.

 

It takes her a year to become friends with Osha, the woman that you had decided was right for Rickon because she was hard to pin down and seemed unwilling to do as she was told (you hoped that stubbornness would help when RIckon was being a nightmare about her accompanying him, as he often was), and you’re glad for it, because you don’t always trust Margaery’s intentions and there’s a part of you that feels as though Brienne is too soft, too kind, for a girl like Margaery to interfere with and still leave unhurt (you try not to think about what that means for Sansa, try not to think about the certain air of inevitability about the two of them). This somehow leads to her opening up to all of you, to more smiles and for her previous discomfort to become obvious as she shows the difference in the way she is when she’s not tensed. Sometimes you wonder into the kitchen to the two of them laughing, out of uniform, Brienne seeming even taller when folded onto one of the kitchen stools, and she always yells to ask if anyone wants tea when she’s making it. It’s a loud house, and Brienne feeling welcome enough to add to that makes you smile more than it maybe should. There are still times when you walk into the kitchen in the middle of the night and she’s leaning against the counter, watching the kettle boil, and you worry that she isn’t sleeping enough.

 

“Tea?” she offers, voice rough with the late hour, eyes still piercingly blue in the quiet half-light, shoulders broad in the plain tshirt she wears. You nod and sit down as she makes it for you, and sits down opposite you, her mug seeming too small as she wraps her hands around it.

 

“Couldn’t sleep?” you ask as you breathe in the hot steam, your “world’s best mum” mug hot in your hands.

 

“No,” she shrugs, and you see the effort she makes to be more forthcoming. “At the beginning it was just because it was a new place, but it’s been a year and I never slept well before, so,” she shrugs. “I guess you couldn’t either?”

 

“I’ve always been a restless sleeper,” you smile, looking up from you mug. “I’ve always been told that it’s a mother’s curse, always fretting about whether your babies are safe, but all’s been quiet since Ned so I suppose it’s just how things are.” Mentioning Ned doesn’t make you miss him in the same way that you used to, it’s not longer a sharp ache but an uncomfortable background hurt, and you cry rarely these days.

 

“I guess we’re both stuck awake for unknown reasons then.” She smiles at you over her tea and you worry about her briefly, about whether she’s sleeping, whether this is something that happens more often than she lets on. You want to reach out and smooth the dark circles under her eyes, to draw her fringe out of her face. She reaches up and does the latter for you, impatiently pushing it back with a scarred hand. She notices you looking and glances at her hand like she’s forgotten that the scars are there.

 

“My father owns a lot of land, that’s how I got these,” she says, quietly, and you unconsciously perk to attention because you still know so little about her. “Farming leads to a surprising amount of small scars. It’s always where I learned to shoot a gun.” 

 

“Was it just you and your father?” you ask, as carefully as you can, because you know family is a tough topic for most, and you know that she scares easily, when it comes to conversations like these.

 

“Yes, and those that worked on the farm while also living with us. I used to be jealous of those that grow up with siblings but after witnessing some of the arguments Arya and Sansa have I’m not sure I would have enjoyed it.”

 

You laugh, surprised, pleased. “Arya would happily argue with anyone who stands still for long enough. I’m surprised she hasn’t attempted to draw you into something yet, although that might just be because she knows that you’re too tall for her to win.”

 

“I’m not sure I would like to go against her when she’s fully grown, shes quite agile as it is,” her smile is small but it’s there, and you’re glad that you woke up, glad that you’re here.

 

“I suppose you learnt that from one of the times I’ve tried to catch her to get her dressed for an event?”

 

“She is more skilled at evading your grasp than I was expecting,” she admits, and you both laugh.

 

“How do you know Loras?” you ask, suddenly, surprising you both, and she rolls her eyes at the mention of him.

 

“University. Renly was in some of my classes, Loras didn’t like that we spoke. I’m not entirely sure why as I knew Renly was gay, it’s been years and Loras is still insistent that I’m interested.” She’s blushing slightly as she speaks, as though discussing something close to her love life with her employer was not what she was expecting, as though she’s embarrassed by it.

 

“And you weren’t?”

 

“Interested in him? God no.” You almost laugh at the look of horror on her face, stifling it as she continues. “I, well, I’m about as interested in him as he would be in me.” You stare at her, nonplussed, for a long moment and she coughs, blushing again. “I am also gay.”

 

Your first thought is that that should not have been up for debate, that her short hair and men’s suits and the way that she walks should have made that obvious, even to you. “I’m glad we talked about this before I asked if you had a boyfriend,” you say, smiling, trying to convey that it’s fine, that it’s not a big deal, and she laughs, awkward and not looking at you, and you wonder if her father knows. “Does Loras know?” you ask, instead, distracting yourself with the matter at hand.

 

“I don’t know how he could not know,” she says with a smile, and you chuckle, and then you realise that you’ve finished your tea and it’s 4am.

 

“I should probably go back to bed, I’ve asked you enough questions for one extremely early morning” you say, suddenly, and a yawn comes as though being reminded of the time has reminded you that you should be tired. You put your cup on the side and wish her goodnight, smiling at her soft goodnight in return, and head to bed, leaving her looking into her mug, sitting in your kitchen which seemed too small for her.

 

Brienne is still with you four late night cups of tea later, and she’s there when Robb announces that he’s running for Governor, when he tells you that regardless of what happened to his father it won’t happen again, and she’s still there as you pace around your kitchen fuming once he’s gone, Theon still clinging to him like a shadow, a Karstark in a somber suit bringing up the rear. She gets to hear you curst politics and America and absolutely everything that you can think of for the next twenty minutes. When you finally stop talking she just looks at you, warily, as though she’s expecting you to explode again any minute, and she listens as you sit down and start running through all of the things that you’ll need to do.

 

“This means you’re not getting a new job any time soon,” you warn, and she smiles.

 

“I was just getting used to you all as it is.”

 

Sansa and Margaery come down, angry, Sansa furious at Robb for doing this when you’ve all seen what it can do, Margaery wary of how a newly ignited interest from the press will affect all of you. Arya appears a minute later, declares that she doesn't care, and Bran rolls from his room looking slightly annoyed but not surprised. Rickon appears just because everyone else is there, and suddenly it’s a family meeting, plus Brienne. She tries to make her inconspicuous but doesn’t leave, listening to your family arguing over whether Robb should be allowed to do this. You have a stray thought that she belongs here, with your family all shouting at each other and her smiling at them over the rim of her coffee cup. You push it down, don’t think about what it means, and simply return to telling Arya off for swearing.

 

When you finally notice how you feel you consider firing her. It’s only been a year and a half since Ned, and you’d thought he was the only person you could ever love, but her constant presence becomes more than something you have to suffer through, she becomes more and more like someone you appreciate having in your life. It takes you noticing the clear outline of muscle in her bicep to realise what this actually is, and you hope that she doesn’t notice you backing out of the room slightly flustered. It’s unprofessional, you tell yourself, but then you think that it only counts if you actually act inappropriately towards her, which you have no intention of doing.

 

She comes back from her run early clad in a loose tank top and leggings and you very carefully don’t stare as she drinks a glass of water at the sink while you’re just trying to eat your breakfast, and you tell yourself again that you should fire her. You still don’t, not even after she dresses up for a fundraiser in a suit supplied by the family tailor and you almost stutter on what you were saying to Sansa as you marvel at her, at you think about the difference that some good tailoring can make. Margaery notices, and smirks at you, and you wonder, slightly spitefully, when she’s going to admit that she’s in love with Sansa.

 

Later, when Brienne’s stood off to one side, her eyes tracking you across the room and you’re holding a free glass of champagne and Sansa’s gone to the bathroom, Margaery tells you that many people sleep with their bodyguards. You almost spray champagne all over her.

 

“Margaery!” you scold, and she just continues smirking at you, like she always does. She’s a little older than Sansa, twenty-one instead of eighteen, but that’s still far too young to be talking about this. “This is not an appropriate topic of conversation.”

 

“And the way that you looked at Brienne earlier wasn’t appropriate either, but some things just happen.” she laughs and you continue glaring at her until she shrugs. “I just wanted to say that I think you should. Sleep with her, I mean. It’d be good for the both of you.”

 

You’re saved from having to reply by Sansa coming back, Margaery grinning at the discrete glare you give her, and you disappear to mingle, trying to leave her words behind you, where you left that smirk still resting on her face.

 

Brienne drives you both back, Sansa and Margaery having gone on to one of those parties that you don’t trust but they assure you is just a small gathering of friends, and you think that the silence is different but you also know that you’re just projecting, that you’re just letting your feelings get the better of you. You’re quietly glad that you only had two glasses of champagne, that your cheeks aren’t flushed and you’re just as steady as you usually are. You glance at her, concentrating on the road, eyes dark under the flashing streetlights, and you know that Margaery is wrong. Brienne is soft in a lot of way that you admire, and her heart is too open for anyone to just sleep with her, for you to have her as some kind of dirty secret as she continues to work in your employ. You think her strick moral code wouldn’t let her do that, because she knows the price of honour is often leaving behind that which would make her the happiest, and you think that that is one of the things that makes you admire her the most.

 

“Something matter?” she asks, and you jump, blushing in the dark of the car as you realise that you have definitely been caught staring, been caught tracing the lines of her face with your eyes, even as she keeps most of her attention on the road.

 

“I was just thinking…” you trail off, knowing you have to say something, knowing you have to diffuse the tension. “I was just wondering if you enjoyed working for me?” you settle on, deciding against asking if she had a girlfriend, thinking it would be too close to the truth.

 

She blinks, surprised, and you see how carefully she crafts her answer. “I certainly do. You pay well, and I have found that I feel more… comfortable in your employ than I have anywhere else, Ms Stark.”

 

“Please, how many times do I have to tell you to call me Catelyn,” you’re smiling as she nods, still uncertain. “And I’m glad to hear that, recently I have felt as though you’ve found a place with us.”

 

She smiles in return, teeth flashing in the darkness. “I think I have,” she pauses, thinks before trying it. “Catelyn.”

 

Your smile widens at the use of your name, glad to be rid of another formal barrier that she insists on putting between you, and you figure it might be her strict code of honour that was to blame. “I want you to know that you always have a place with us,” your voice is quieter, more serious than you meant it to be, and you’re glad that she’s not looking at you, glad that you can just see the edges of her smile.

 

“Thank you, you don’t know what that means to me,” her voice is equally quiet, and you want to laugh at how unexpecting this is, how unexpected she is, and both of you are quiet until you wish her goodnight on the stairs, her smile soft and heart wrenchingly genuine as she returns in kind. 

 

You can’t fire her after this, can’t move backwards while you also can’t move forwards, and you collapse onto your bed still dressed in the evening gown you had gone out in, remember all of the times Ned had unzipped dresses like this on nights like these, wonder if her large hands would be as gentle as you think they would be, laugh as you consider what Ned would say if he were to see you like this, mooning over a woman so much younger than yourself, so much gentler than you had known anyone could be anymore, so careful and so loving and so preoccupied with doing “the right thing”. There had been few that you could trust the way that you trust her, the way that you feel for her so foreign after so many years of it being just Ned, after a whole lifetime of loving one man and expecting nothing else, not wanting anything else. You wonder how you could fall for someone that you know so little about, but you know that it’s in the warm glint of her eyes, the shyness of the curve of her smile, the carefulness of her hands. You know that she is gentle and brave and uncertain, and that is enough for you, enough for what’s left of your heart. You wish her closer while simultaneously further away. You wish her happiness and you wish for her to find it with you.

 

She smiles at you across the room, and you think that no one could find her imposing in the least, not when they know how her eyes shine when she smiles and means it, not when they know what she looks like shuffling into the kitchen yawning, but then you’ve never seen her in crisis mode, never seen her with her gun in hand, never seen her make use of that martial arts training you know she has. You just see her like this, stretched out on your sofa watching shitty daytime TV, Arya watching it with her instead of doing her homework, because you know it won’t be completed by now, 2pm on a Sunday. You hover in the doorway for a long moment, long enough that you can tell Brienne’s about to ask you if you need anything.

 

“Tea?” you offer instead, and Arya mutters no thanks, as though she’s trying not to remind you that there’s Maths homework she should be doing.

 

“I’ll come help you make it,” Brienne says, and stands up, stretching, and you wonder if you imagined hearing something click or if something actually does. She’s too young for aches and pains, is the thought that follows, but you admit that in her line of work they’re probably inescapable. She’s quiet as the kettle boils, retrieving her favourite mug from the dishwasher with a small frown, and when her phone buzzes she checks it and lets out a disgruntled “ugh”, and you can’t help asking because you’re endlessly curious.

 

“Something wrong?”

 

“It’s just…” she trails off, scrubs a hand through her hair roughly. “Margaery added me to an event because Loras and Renly are throwing a party while they’re in town and she thinks it would be a good idea if I went, because some of the others from uni will be there, but I don’t want to see Loras and I’ve never much felt like Renly is  _ that _ bothered.” It comes out in a rush, like she doesn’t want to say it, or doesn’t know how, and she stands there, fiddling with her phone, frowning, and you’re filled with that urge to keep Margaery away from her all over again.

 

“If you don’t want to go, don’t,” you reply, easily, and you let your concern morph into a smile. “Tell her that you’re working that night.”

 

She laughs, embarrassed as she pours water into both of your mugs. “She’s not going to stop hassling me until I see Renly, has taken it upon herself to help me out of something,” she shakes her head. “I’m not a charity case.”

 

“I can book something that night, so you really are working,” you suggest, and she smiles, shy and unsure, like her smiles always are, but also as though she couldn’t imagine you doing that for her, like she could never ask you to do that.

 

“You don’t have to, I’ll just keep ignoring her,” she says, but then Margaery flies into the kitchen, like she could just smell that they were talking about it.

 

“You have to come! Renly hasn’t seen you in ages!” she starts with, straight out, and you see the way Brienne’s posture stiffens, the way she twirls the spoon in her mug so she doesn’t have to look at either of you, her hands nervous and her gaze down.

 

“She’s working that night,” you step in, and Margaery takes a moment, as though she’d barely noticed you were there, too wrapped up in her mission to corner Brienne.

 

“She’s not, I checked,” she frowns. “The only thing on is that Karstark dinner and you said you were going to leave that to Robb.”

 

“I changed my mind,” you shrug. “Robb doesn’t yet have a wife he can use to distract those that aren’t there for the actual politics.” You congratulate yourself on your quick thinking, smile at Brienne as Margaery leaves, and she blushes.

 

“Ms Stark-” she starts, but you cut her off.

 

“I told you to call me Catelyn,” you’re still smiling, softly, as you correct her, and she nods.

 

“Catelyn, you didn’t need to do that.”

 

“I know, but I wanted to. It just means I’ll have to take you as my date so you can entertain me through hours of stories about what everyone’s little ones are up to.” You don’t think as you say it, and you curse your slip, curse the way that she flushes even more, the way she looks down into her tea.

 

“It would be an honour,” she says, quietly, seriously, and you think that maybe, there might be something there, something more than you just being a surprisingly pleasant employer.

 

“You won’t say that once you see what we’ve got in store for us,” you joke, and then take your tea back to the study, don’t think about her tiny smile, don’t think about the blush that had spread all of the way down her neck, had even touched her ears, don’t think about the seriousness of her eyes, the quietness of her voice when she had told you, with some sort of reverence in her voice, that it would be an honour. Instead, you find out the date of the Karstark dinner so you can be prepared for whatever that may bring.

 

The week before the event is no different from usual, except you think that she wears a slight blush around you more often than she had previously, but she is still quiet and courteous and still brings you tea whenever she makes herself a mug. You should be busy helping Robb with his campaign, with calling in favours and making visits and drawing in the donations, but you do this on automation, autopilot firmly clicked on as you’re hyper aware of Brienne’s eyes on your back, of her protecting you at every moment. Your thoughts drift and you hope that she wears the suit that’s a deep burgundy, very almost black, and not exactly suitable for your bodyguard but definitely suitable for your date.

 

She wears it, and you’re glad you picked your dress on that hope, the red not your usual colour but you’re tired of the black or navy or grey that you usually end up favouring for these events, and she’s waiting for you in the hall like she always does, hands behind her back in what you think of as her bodyguard posture, but you recognise that her job is what she relaxes into when she’s nervous or unsure. She hears your heels on the stairs and her head snaps round, and you think that the bold colour is worth it for the shock on her face, the moment before her guard goes back up where she looks at you with unbridled awe. Nobody has looked at you like that since Ned, who had once stood at the bottom of these stairs and waited for you just as she is, had once extended his arm to walk you to the car like she does, quiet and reserved.

 

“You look beautiful,” she says, quietly, her voice hushed, and when you put your arm through hers you realise that she’s not wearing her gun today, that she really is leaving the job behind, and your thoughts move at 100mph a second because this is, well, it’s not professional. This is what you thought she would never accept, but here she is, holding onto your arm, opening the car door for you with a small smile.

 

“Burgundy suits you,” you say, as she clips in her seatbelt, and you see her blush in the porch lights, see her smile as she puts the car in reverse.

 

The event is long, and boring, and dinner is tedious but she does her best to distract you through it, and you don’t do all of the mingling you’re supposed to, leave most of that to Robb because you’re learning things about her, learning that she doesn’t like champagne and she doesn’t really like beer either, but she drinks it because she doesn’t have a very high alcohol tolerance. You learn that she’s met a lot of these men, these people who are supposed to be the very upper echelon of politics, because there had been a time where the Tarths were well regarded, when they’d been major players within this game that you’d hoped not to get drawn back to. You pretend not to hear the whispers, the wondering about the two of you being here, together, and Robb doesn’t even appear to notice that she’s actually eating with you all, doesn’t appear to notice that she doesn’t spend this evening standing with the other bodyguards in a different room.

 

She blushes whenever you touch her arm, whenever you smile at her, blushes when you lean in to whisper something about one of the other guests, this is something that you notice, that you catalogue, because you know that she’s not just generally uncomfortable with casual touches, have seen her and Osha hug, have seen her and Robb clap each other on the back when they come back in from a run, but you’ve never seen her blush like this. You’ve never seen her smile like this either, this careful, restrained, thing, not so much shy but more like she wants to look at you with that smile lighting up her face, like she wants to broadcast that she’s happier now than you think you’ve ever seen her, but she’s trying desperately hard to stop that from happening. You think it’s cute, you realise, you think everything she does is cute, and when she guides you back to the car with a hand on your lower back you’re glad for it, feel better for it.

 

You’re quiet on the way back, and you can’t help looking at her, looking at her enough that you almost expect her to ask you what’s wrong, but instead she’s almost got a smile on her face, and she’s tapping her fingers on the steering wheel, and you think that she knows what, that she knows exactly why you’re looking at her.

 

“Thank you for coming with me tonight,” you say, quietly, just loud enough to be heard over the road noise that barely makes it into the car.

 

“Thank you for inviting me,” her smile breaks through, briefly. “Thank you for getting me out the big reunion.”

 

She pauses, debates whether she should mention it, debates whether Brienne just missed it or if she just knew, debates whether she wants to break this careful, tentative tension. “How did you know that I wasn’t joking? About the date?”

 

“I’ve seen…” she shifts, uncomfortable. “The way you look at me. That didn’t seem like a joke, unless I misread the situation.”

 

“You didn’t,” Catelyn laughs, a dry huff, of surprise, and of relief. “I didn’t realise that you knew.”

 

Brienne looks at her, quickly, and Catelyn just thinks about what her eyes look like in the dark of the car, thinks about whether she’ll kiss her in the shadowy hallway when they get in, thinks about future evenings when she’ll finally have someone to unzip her dress for her, someone who will kiss her spine and handle the zip so gently it won’t snag, someone who will smooth the angry red lines where her clothes have been digging in all night. Brienne almost asks you what you’re thinking about this time, like she can see that your thoughts are far away, far ahead, because neither of you are ready for those nights yet, neither of you think it’s time. Instead you ask her, and she gives you a full smile, the kind that you can never help but return.

 

“What are you thinking?” you all but whisper, and she just shrugs.

 

“I’m thinking about how I’m going to have to quit my job,” she admits, and you laugh.

 

“I’ll fire you, if you want, if it means that we can continue this.”

 

“No, I’m happy to hand in my notice,” she laughs, and you can’t help but slide towards her, resting your head on her shoulder, ignoring the way that she jogs you when she changes gear, and the two of you get out quietly when you get home, walking up to the porch slowly, and she takes your hand without saying anything, lets you both in. 

 

She stops in the hallway, turns to face you, and you’re glad that you were right, hope that she’ll kiss you now, but instead she kisses your knuckles, slowly, carefully, and for one terrible moment you think that she’s going to leave it like that, but instead she follows it with a soft, chaste kiss on your lips, and a whispered goodnight, and she leaves you staring after her in your own hallway, leaves you to return to your room in something that feels like a fog, leaves you feeling like a sixteen year old girl who just got asked on her first date. It’s the start of something, something which you hope lasts. 


End file.
